Tell Me
by Cambion Delacroix
Summary: "Tell moi you love me," he whispered, breath hot against the Englishman's left ear. FrUK, mentions of sex and swearing but not much.


It had been a Friday much like any other. Arthur had dragged himself out of bed, had a nice spot of morning tea to start the day, and he went to get all his political work done. While it wasn't on his agenda to have anything planned for the weekend, he'd rather have a clean slate than that of papers, pens, and calluses on his fingers.

After a few dozen signatures, and then some, Arthur was just about to set down his pen, other hand already reaching for the still-steaming teacup… But of course, peace hadn't been on his agenda, now had it?

"Angleterre~" rang out the Frenchman that he knew all too well. These days, he never bothered to knock, ring the doorbell, anything. "Zat is why we 'ave a treaty, is it not, mon amour?" was what he felt the need to say every bloody time. Then Arthur would deny it, and Francis would pretend the exchange hadn't just taken place.

Boot heels slapped against the hardwood floor as Francis entered Arthur's study. He waited a moment before asking with a pout, "What? Do I not even get a greeting?" That god-forsaken pout, the Brit wanted to wipe it right off his face. It was clearly false.

"No, you do not," he huffed, realizing it went against his intentions of ignoring him altogether. It was almost better to humor him at first, it prolonged the 'small talk' he always had before his attempts and trials at shagging. Bah, Arthur wanted to gag at the thought.

"Aww..~" he trailed off, stepping closer before taking a seat at the edge of his desk, daintily sliding the teacup farther from him. Arthur picked it up, at that. "But, I 'ave missed you so much~!"

Green eyes were caught in a roll. Sarcasm practically dripping off his tongue, Arthur retorted, "Oh, I'm entirely sure." Then his lips met the brim of his teacup, taking a sip.

Gloved fingers tapped on the desk, just shy of Arthur's forearm. "Why do you not believe moi? I am speaking ze truth." He nodded, giving a toss of his head to cast the blond locks from his eyes. His blue, blue eyes that seemed to have a glint in them that he purposely put in there to charm the poor innocents. Arthur was no innocent, he wouldn't fall for it.

"Because there's something else," he spat, taking air in up his nose in what could be called a… snooty gesture, he supposed. Not that it mattered. "There always is." Crashing his thick eyebrows against his eyelids in a glare, he continued looking up at the Frenchman. He had to cut to the chase eventually, at which point Arthur would have all the more reason to remove him from his household.

And, as he expected, Francis hopped off the desk in order to waltz his way around it, towards "Angleterre's" side. The events started rolling through his mind for how they'd happen, in both the best case scenario as well as the worst. The best, Francis would pull him close by his tie, attempt a kiss, and pull his usual shit. Then Arthur would move him in one way or another, kneeing his crotch, biting, kicking, hitting, and scratching, whatever. Then he'd drag him to the doorway and lock all his doors. The worst being well… Francis' intentions; the usual seduction, doing the deed (without Arthur's consent, of course!), and then Francis would leave before the sun rose and it'd feel as if it never happened. The last part, the Englishman had to frequently remind himself, was for the better, anyway.

However, it didn't go as his experience told him. Francis seated himself on the desk once again, merely a foot closer this time. "Why? Why does that 'ave to be it? It's not about sex, it is about… l'amour~"

While this was better than planned, Arthur couldn't help but scoff. "Right, whatever you say."

Then, the man shrugged, and from his place on the desk, leaned towards the other. He placed the backs of his knuckles against his cheek, the very cheek dusted just so lightly with freckles. Keeping up a soft caress, he leaned his face near the side of the other's.

"Tell moi you love me," he whispered, breath hot against the Englishman's left ear.

Now… now this was odd, England thought while his spine stiffened at the warm breath. His nose wrinkled, the man smelled of wine and smoke, the smoke just a touch heavier than usual. "Beg your p-pardon…?" he just barely managed. On any other Friday, any other evening, the Frenchman would be well into applying kisses and whispering sweet nothings; 'Je t'adore, mon petite lapin. T'es beau, tu sais? Je veux toi…' And he knew the routine, that he'd never get any of them whispered, or even spoken, in return, because Arthur would never think them, never say them, never let the chains around that shriveled organ of a heart he had loosen. It was easier, so much easier that way. He swallowed hard at the thought.

"You 'eard me," he added, still with a light tone, and still in such close proximity to the other.

Pink was being muddled in the dust on his cheeks, heart involuntarily speeding up. "W.. why should I…?" he snapped, keeping up the sideways glare.

"Parce que," Francis continued, his tone seeming a touch irritated by Arthur's attitude. Not that it changed from this much, nowadays. "Zat is my reason for coming today. I want to 'ear it."

Air flared out Arthur's nostrils, refusing to look directly at him. "But, that would be impossible." He didn't love Francis, such impossibility. While they had been at peace for a good century or so, that changed nothing. One couldn't erase the years of war, the words spoken so darkly over the years, and the hate that had built up within the both of them. He knew Francis still held it, and simply chose to ignore it, because it was impossible to completely overcome.

"Pourquoi? I zink it is very simple," Francis spoke, resting his temple on the other's. By this time, he was practically sitting… on his lap. And yet, noted the smaller nation, he had no motive to move him. I-It was because that would subdue the conversation, which needed closure. Yes, that was it.

"Because that would be a lie," he answered, letting out a light 'humph' whilst doing so. "Besides, don't pretend that you think of me that way, either." Finally, his downcast gaze rose to meet the man who was just to his side.

Although, he'd be a liar if he didn't admit, even to himself, that there was more to it than the gunshots, spit-laden insults, and the utter repulse that those memories brought. There was laughter, those long nights, and those calm afternoons (at least for a while, they were calm). They didn't cancel the bad, and nor did they balance it. So therefore, he didn't mind.

"Oh, but Angleterre, I do, very much," he only went on, placing a kiss softly on his ear. A shiver ran up Arthur's spine, a reaction he would've liked much better to have been kept to himself. "I zink…" he continued, leaving a longer pause than the Englishman anticipated. At that, he cleared his throat expectantly. "Ah, I zink zat I 'ave explained my feelings time and time again over ze years," and yet he managed to retain his soft tone, consistent in his tactics. With that, a flutter of his eyelashes that became a butterfly kiss on the edge of Arthur's face, "It is your turn now."

Arthur scoffed, his thoughts dancing away on his tongue before he had the chance to catch them; "Actions speak far louder than words." Crossing his arms, he remained stiff and annoyed.

There was light hum, more of a whine than a thoughtful noise. "But what ozer zings can I do? I 'ave done so much…~" And there was a kiss just to the side of the Englishman's cheekbone, causing a grimace.

"Bloody… Get off me!" so finally, Arthur struggled and squirmed to get the other far from him. He couldn't take this right now.

The Frenchman pouted, firm in place, not about to leave just yet. "Angleterre. Say it, and I will leave." With that, he nodded.

Arthur pursed his lips. Did the pros outweigh the cons? He knew that, were those three regrettable words to leave his mouth, the other would never allow him to live it down. But on the other hand, he knew firsthand that the man was persistent. He, quite literally, would not leave Arthur's side until he got what he wanted, or Hell froze over; whichever came first.

Something told him that Hell wouldn't be on his side this time around. Practically hissing out his latest exhale, he allowed himself to mutter the eight letters under his breath.

Unfortunately, so goddamn unfortunately, that wasn't good enough for the man before him! "Angleterre~" he pouted, furrowing his neat blond eyebrows together, "I could not 'ear you!" Arthur practically bit his tongue, forming a glare that could easily kill a man of lesser experience. Francis, although a coward, had become well accustomed to the 'feisty' nation's habits. Yes, looking like an ass was a habit in the Frenchman's book.

One attempt had already been made; he may as well give it one more shot. Giving Francis' collar a tug, he pulled him closer still, so a mere whisper would seem at normal tone. One more deep breath, and as fast as he could, he rushed out, "Fine, I love you, frog. Now get out of my house."

Francis released his trademark chuckle, moving to stand once again. "Zat is all I needed to 'ear~" He bent over, causing Arthur to wonder why exactly he felt the need to stand already. This thought was cut off, though, as wine-tainted lips brushed against his. His eyes widened, not in an angry look, but one of momentary shock. Right as the shock faded, the Frenchman had long since removed his lips, already in the action of turning to leave the study.

"Au revoir, sweet Angleterre~" he sang, giving a wave without looking back. Tired of looking at the Frenchman's back, Arthur turned his chair around, facing the wall.

It was only as Francis was long gone, most-likely finding his means of transportation home, that a terrible thought entered the brain of the angry man; were it less startling, he would've spat and went on with his life.

'_What if I actually meant it_?'

**A/N: Uhm... excuse that terrible excuse for a French accent. OTL**


End file.
